MCCAIN RISING: Four or five months ago I sat at dinner with a table full of people who were, for the most part, more successful than me. They were big deals at brands, ad agencies, and so forth, and they all had titles like President or CEO. As part of dinner conversation, we all ventured guesses as to who the Dem and Republican presidential candidates would be. For the most part, we all agreed Hillary was likely to earn the Dem nod. On the Republican side of the fence, the conventional wisdom seemed to be that Romney was the frontrunner, with a few dissenting voices suggesting it was Giuliani's time.

"McCain," I said, when it was my turn. "Johh McCain not only will be the Republican nomineee, he'll also be our next president."

Few at the table made any effort to contain their derision. I distinctly recall one guy saying, "You're an idiot," or something similar. "He's done."

"All it will take is one big something," I said. "One big something that suggests that the war is going exceptionally well...or exceptionally badly."

After today's events, I almost feel like gloating...if that thought weren't so indecorous. After today's events, there seems to be only one candidate on either side of the aisle, so to speak, who has the gravity and experience to lead us through the difficult period ahead. Same guy I said that night at dinner.

Not so much an idiot.

DADDY'S LUCKY: "What did you do at school today?"

This is my typical query for kindergartener C.J. when I arrive at home each night. Mostly I get murky little answers, aimed at putting me off the scent: "Nothing." "We just played." "I can't remember."

The other night he turned the tables on me.

"Daddy, what did you do at work today?"

"Uh..."

"Daddy, tell me what you did."

"Okay...I did a lot of work."

"Daddy!"

"Uh...well...I talked to ESPN for a while, the sports TV station. Then I talked to Nintendo for a while, the folks that make your Wii. Then I got a call from NBC, the TV station that me and Mommy like to watch sometimes. And then when I was getting ready to leave I talked to a college guy who wants me to come there and give a talk to some people."

"Did you have fun, Daddy?"

A great question. And as I sat there and contemplated the contents of my day, I was pretty proud of the answer I was able to give him.

"I really did," I said. "Daddy's lucky."

GO CUBS GO: I'm pretty excited my Cubs are in the playoffs. Still, I think I better take it down a notch.

I'm staying at a smallish lodge in the middle of nowhere, and after Big Z just struck out Tony Clark to end the first inning I heard myself yell, "Now go sit down, fucker!"

It was involuntary, and it was loud.

I'm fearful of what might happen in a close game, late. It's already 10:25PM here.

POKE-NOSE: I have a neighbor, an older guy, who doesn't get out much. He's not in very good health. Once a week or so, if he's able, he makes a constitutional around the block. Over the years, we've built up a fun relationship, swapping a kind word or two when our paths cross. He likes me, and I like him, although our life experiences are quite different. He thinks my old Mercedes is a "Rolls Royce," and I don't correct him. He seems to like to think I'm a big deal.

"You off on another trip?" he asked this morning.

"I am," I say. "The Poconos."

"The who?"

"The Poconos. Mountains in Pennsylvania. A resort."

"Uh huh," he says, smiling. "Poke-nose!"

"There's a conference there," I tell him. "I'm speaking."

"They got good pizza there," he says, not asking. "In the Poke-nose."

"They do?" I ask.

"Oh, yeah," he says, his eyes narrowing as he imagines it. "You'll see."

"I'll try it," I tell him. "Thanks."

"Okay, then," he says, smiling. "You try it."

FLIPPING: There's supposedly hell construction starting today on my usual route to work, so I took the train out this morning. I got to the platform kind of early, and so I had to watch quite a few trains pass by on their way downtown.

Me on a bench. Trains passing on the other side. Tons of human cattle wedged inside, staring out.

And I had the overpowering urge to flip the bird to all the passers-by. It wasn't an "f you" bird, really. I wasn't mad at them, felt no malice, etc. It just seemed really funny to me. What could they do but sit there and take it? And frankly, if I was them I'd think it was funny, too. Just some dumb guy on a bench mass-birding all these people...

Reminds me of when I used to have to go to church, way back, and when the service would start to drone on -- like five minutes in -- I was always struck by the powerful desire to stand up and walk across the top of the pews to the front of the church. I never knew what I would do when I got there, but I always wanted to just do that, to balance my way through the folks across the tops of the benches...

Also reminds me of sitting in class, going stir-crazy, and working like hell to come up with some kind of subversive thing to do, like when me and my crowd used to make these little noises in our throats without moving our mouths at all, and we'd alternate doing it, looking straight ahead. Or when I was on a conference call the other day and I started pawing at the glass outside my office, trying to amuse my colleague but really just going nutso in my head at feeling so confined and slowed down...

BLAH BLAH FROM A NEIGHBOR: Nice day in Chicago. Something like 80 degrees, sunny, etc. Still, it's a Sunday in football season, and my wife is nice enough to let me do what I want to do: watch the Bears. And so, I'm doing that when one of my neighbors sticks his head in our door, downstairs, and yells up for the score. I tell him the Bears are losing, they suck, etc. "You wasted a great day indoors," he taunts. Idiot. Win or lose, I just did exactly what I wanted to do for the past three-plus hours. I watched the Bears, and I made an investment in being a fan. I don't regret a second of it.

Plus...well, the Bears might still win. There's a minute left, they're down 10 and threatening...

Miss Teen USA 2007 - South Carolina answers a question

This rules.

HEY, AL GORE, LAY OFF THE CHEESEBURGERS: Apparently I can feel a little less guilty 'bout driving my big car, given that I haven't eaten any beef in about eight years or so.

ALWAYS LOOK ON THE BRIGHT SIDE OF DEATH: I was musing on procrastination and deadline anxiety and the like this morning...when this little poem occurred to me:

ON PROCRASTINATING
One thing I do not have
to worry about
finishing:

Life.

AND ANOTHER: I think I keep writing the same poem over and over again, just with different words.

CLARITY

Somewhere shortly after
my grave moments
when I crawl out from under
the blues I see
the lows do rise
just like the highs
subside.

WHEN IN DOUBT, WRITE POETRY: Nothing like a one-off, shrunken poem to jumpstart posting here again. So...

BALANCING

I am
most happy
in the company of souls
who are heart-

broken all
the time, their lips
pulled back so
you can't tell
the difference between
a wince and a grin.

THE NEW SEROTONIN? Band that overstayed its welcome to join forces with presidential candidate who overstayed his welcome. Convergence of mediocrity to be bottled as a sleep aid. Read all about it.

THE SHAME OF IT: I travel quite a bit, and often when I'm on the road I have time in the hotel room in the morning before I set out to do whatever it is I'm supposed to be doing...

...and so I do what probably no other straight male does: I turn on THE VIEW as my background companion. I find it totally compelling. Issues. Banter. Real passionate arguments. Human interest. Etcetera. (I don't know why there's not a guy version of THE VIEW, altho' I suppose that's more or less THE BEST DAMN SPORTS SHOW.)

As I've seen the show here and there, I keep arriving at the same thought: I like this Elizabeth Hasselbeck. Granted, she's not as clever as Joy Behar, not as funny as Rosie (was), or as studied as Babs Walters. But I do find her principled, strong, and sane, attributes that aren't shared by any of the other chicks on the show. (Today's guest VIEWer is that money chick, Suze Orman, who is almost as annoying as Rosie.)

Elizabeth generates all kinds ire in the blogosphere, where she gets labeled as Elizabitch and is constantly getting slammed for her supposedly "right wing" views. Bottom line: She's a traditional gal with somewhat conservative values, and she refuses to toe the Hollywood line. Plus she's hot.

Oh, sweet Jesus, now they're talking to the creator of Spanx undergarments for women. Time to find SportsCenter.

I DO HAVE A WEAKNESS FOR MAKING LISTS: I have two sisters-in-law, and both of 'em blog. One is here. The other is here. Both are kind of nutso in their own way, which is to say well worth checking out and knowing and whatnot. (It's my contention that it's a Hess male tradition to marry nutjob chicks we can't live without. You could also make the case that only a nutjob chick would marry one of us. One thing is for certain: Hess men don't marry milquetoasts. We marry the fiery ones. God help us.)

Anyhoo, one of my in-law sis types posted one of those list things, where you have to make a list of three things across a bunch of categories, and then she said she wanted me to do it, too. She tapped me, or tagged me, or whatever the hip web lingo is. And so...

three things that scare me:

1. death
2. lightning
3. death by lightning

three people who make me laugh:

1. chrissy cramer mulligan
2. rob gorrell
3. brad schrepferman

three things i love:

1. my entire extended nutjob family
2. seeing raw joy on my sons' faces
3. my multifaceted wife

three things i hate/severely dislike:

1. negativity
2.
3.

three things i don’t understand:

1. tools and building stuff
2. directions and maps
3. girls

three things on my desk:

1. in-room dining menu
2. the Austin-American Statesman
3. My Cingular 8125 phone

three things i’m doing right now:

1. getting ready to eat my room-service oatmeal
2. trying to decide whether to wear the white shirt today or the loud one
3. perching on the precipice of flatulence

three things i want to do before i die:

1. see my kids happy and healthy and established
2. write a novel
3. find peace with my mortality

three things i can do:

1. present in front of a group
2. write
3. find or make fun

three things i can’t do:

1. build stuff
2. use good penmanship
3. watch ER or other bloody medical dramas

three things i think you should listen to:

1. The Legendary Jim Ruiz Group, OH BROTHER WHERE ART THOU
2. The Aluminum Group, WONDER BOY PLUS
3. Spandau Ballet, "True"

three things you should never listen to:

1. that Blake guy from American Idol
2. forwarded emails
3. Barbara Streisand

three things i’d like to learn:

1. how to write a novel
2. how to really play guitar
3. how to golf

three favourite foods:

1. sushi
2. a loaded veggie burger from George's or Little Louie's
3. french fries

three shows i watched as a kid:

1. mary tyler moore
2. happy days
3. emergency

three things i regret:

1. being such a tough kid to parent
2. not going to my wife's grandmother's funeral
3. meandering through college in a haze of booze and girls

three people i tag:

1. laurel
2. stevie
3. casey

THE DARK HORSE I'M RIDING RIGHT NOW: Oh, lord, another Texas guy. But I listen to Ron Paul and I nod and I like. Seems to have principles, passion, and conviction.

WENT TO A SYMPHONY AND A HOCKEY GAME BROKE OUT: As a guy with anger management issues, this tickled me.

ON BECOMING A MINDFUL BUDDHIST DEMIGOD: Not surprisingly, I've received a few emails and comments about yesterday's post -- the one where I admit to being a hot-headed, thuggish jerk.

Guilty.

Maybe I didn't do a good enough job of communicating how charged the situation was -- how the people behind me were waiting, how the plane was a million degrees, how the guy whose stuff was up there was really making an effort to be a jerk, to show me his contempt for my situation, etc.

No matter. Given all the time I spend reading and thinking about Buddhism and mindfulness, I know well enough that I could have reacted better. There was no need to go on tilt, to let the guy get to me.

So what was the right course? Probably to slow everything down in my head. To make a real effort to connect with the guy, or with somebody else, such that they could empathize with my plight, so that they could help me out with my bag, make some space.

Thing is, there was no overhead bin space evident even a bit farther back. So I would have had to either try and go forward to gate-check my bag -- which was a virtual impossibility, given how many people were behind me trying to get to their seat -- or go to the back of the plane to file my bag somewhere in the bowels of the plane, then try to make my way upstream to my seat. This would, of course, doom me when it came time to deplane, but such is life as a mindful Buddhist demigod, I guess.

Nah. Sometimes the monk must turn his plow into a weapon. I didn't harm anyone. And perhaps in my moment of brute force I spared a whole lot of people a whole lot of jostling.

I'm sure there's some other answer, some other graceful path, but who has the time to figure it out, you know?

NEXT TIME SHUT YOUR YAP: A long time away from blogging! A recent travel story...

I'm headed home from Boston after a couple-day jaunt. I miss the early boarding call for big-time travelers such as myself, so I end up boarding cattle-call with everybody else. By the time I make it to my seat, fairly far forward in the plane, all the storage bins around my seat appear full.

Appear.

I have a backpack, which I can easily stow under my seat, and a "roller-board," as they say, which is basically a smallish suitcase with a retractable handle and a small set of wheels on the bottom. The plane is far from full yet, so I can see no reason all the bins are so stuffed already. Probably some jamokes from farther back on the plane have ditched their stuff up front as they passed. Also, a quick inspection reveals that a bunch of folks have stuffed small items -- which could easily be stored under the seat -- up top.

I spy a tiny tote bag and a windbreaker thrown haphazardly into the overhead storage bins, expanding across the space and making it impossible for me to get my bag up there.

"Anybody have this small bag and this windbreaker?" I ask, looking around. Nobody answers. Fine. I take them out and shove my bag in, then work to fit the windbreaker and the small bag back in without mussing or smushing either. Alas, I can't quite fit them back in, no matter how I try.

"Those are mine," says some wormy guy sitting just below my crotch as I wrestle the bags around, trying to make space. "They're delicate."

"Mind putting them under your empty middle seat?" I ask, smiling.

"Your bag won't fit anyway," he says. "Next time pack lighter."

He smiles a little smile at his seatmate.

"My bag will fit," I tell him. "Watch this."

I take my bag out, shove his windbreaker and small bag back in, then smash my suitcase into them driving them into the back of the compartment. I reach over my head and grab the compartment door and slam it shut. It catches, then gives way, swinging back open.

"Told you," he says.

"I'm not done yet," I say.

I reach up and shove my suitcase back as hard as I can, pancaking his windbreaker and small bag. Then I grab hold of the compartment door with both hands, contract my abdominals and my shoulder muscles and my triceps and my pectorals all at once, breathe out a noisy grunting breath, and slam the motherfucking door shut with all my might, driving my palms against the door with all the force of an agitated Lou Ferrigno. (Or at least a testy Bill Bixby.)

"Told you," I say.

OH YEAH, A SINGLE! It's rare anymore for a newish song to leap off the radio and demand that I buy it, but the other day I heard Blue October's "Into the Ocean" on Sirius Channel One and BOOM I hadda have it. I know nothing of the band, dunno if I'm jumping on a bandwagon or attaching myself to the next 'N Sync or what, but damn is that a good song.

LET ME GET BACK TO YOU AFTER I'VE POLLED THAT QUESTION: Hillary is such a pussy.

DEMS AND DUMBER: Despite an incompetent Republican president, pesky religious zealotry, and impending ecological disaster, the Dems still can't find an electable candidate, if you believe most of these early polls. That the nation won't elect a Mormon nutball is heartwarming, although the fact that we're willing to elect other religious nutballs almost cancels that out. (I'm all for God, I just don't think he plays team sports.)

RUDE AWAKENING: I usually spend my "writing" days holed up at one of a half-dozen area Starbucks, my ears cloaked in Bose noise-cancelling headphones set to play "white noise" over and over. Only this morning...I forgot to put the noise on repeat...so when the fuzz track came to an end my iTunes library skipped right down to "White Noise," an over-the-top punk track by Stiff Little Fingers. Felt like somebody had dipped my sack in a coffee pot...zoiks!

NOTE TO SELF: If Rulon Gardner calls and invites you to hang out, say you're busy.

BORING AND BORINGER: I totally agree with Tom Shales...the Oscars were a snoozefest, with the only authentic moment coming when Jennifer Hudson won. The rest was a pageant put on by pageanteers for pageanteers. Me, I'm not so much into pageants. I like small.

I asked my wife, "Why in God's name do I watch this every year when it always bores me to tears?" She had no answer for me.

I'm pretty sure it's cause I like to be part of the conversation the next day at work.

Since I'm not going to work today, I'll share a few of my thoughts here:

I was hoping Al Gore's big announcement might be that he was starting the South Beach Diet.

That Jodie Foster cleans up awful nice.

People that are annoying just to look at: Jada Pinkett Smith, Leo DiCaprio, George Lucas, Kate Winslet, Celine Dion, Maggie Gyllenhall, Melissa Etheridge, Al Gore, Marc Anthony

George Lucas looks like a guy wearing a George Lucas costume.

If Count Chocula ever retires, Marc Anthony's agent should be on the phone immediately.

When did Clint Eastwood turn 90?

Good for Melissa Etheridge. I was rooting for him.

How in blazes did Jennifer Hudson's girls stay in her dress? She must have low nipples.

How can Beyonce look so hot and so cold...at the same time?

For the love of God, no more Celine Dion. Can't we upgrade to Anne Murray or something?

The Oscars are like SNL: You know it's going to suck but you watch anyway.

Will Ferrell's hair -- and Jack Nicholson's lack thereof -- were my twin show highlights.

Mark Wahlberg has jumped the shark.

Tell me I was not the only person in America who was paralyzed by shock when Ben Affleck was introduced as "an Academy-award winning screenwriter."

The hottest babe of this year's Oscars might have been...Helen Mirren. I shit you not. GrandMILF central.

Of all the nominees, Alan Arkin is the guy I'd most like to have coffee with.

Jack Black is really great at playing...Jack Black.

Gwynneth Paltrow is a huge fan and admirer of...Gwynneth Paltrow. By the way, what's a Gwynneth? Pretty sure it's that dangly piece of skin between your...never mind...

Best understated line of the evening: "They're all nude." (DeGeneres referring to the silhouette dancers with whom she had interacted.)

I shed a tear for departed actor: Don Knotts. By far the most affecting of those whose number came up in '06, and I'm not kidding.

GIULIANI/CUBAN '08: It's gotten to the point where I can't help but be a Mark Cuban fan. Laugh at this if you want...but in an age devoid of Susan Sontags and H.L. Menckens and the like...Mark Cuban may be our leading public intellectual. He's certainly our leading public pragmatist.

WRECKED: Let me start with this: Everybody's fine.

Although C.J. was up most of the night having trouble breathing. Seems like a lot of his colds turn to asthma. I slept next to him and administered his inhaler as needed. I was too worried to sleep. I just passed the time by sweating and taking my pulse.

Although Mikey somehow climbed up on the bathroom counter around 6AM this morning, maneuevered across the sink, opened a child-resistant bottle of kids' cough syrup, and drank a fair amount of it. Granted, he did his share of spilling, too. "Mikey, did you drink this?" "Yeah! Mikey like!"

Poison Control said he would be fine, but he might act a little, well, drunk. I wasn't convinced he'd even managed to get much into his mouth. Now, after watching him stagger, giggle, and drool, I'm revising that opinion. "Music, daddy! Mikey dance!" The boy's gooped up on gop. I wish it were funnier, but it's hard to laugh through the guilt and worry. His doctor agreed with Poison Control: no big deal. Apparently it's fairly common.

C.J. seems much better, with a new day. He's tired, and he has no appetite. But he's relatively happy, and he's breathing almost clearly through his coughs.

Eileen, lucky dog, was in Memphis last night. She missed this. Good for her. Daddy was due.

Everyone in the house has been awake since 5AM now. What a debacle. Alas, we made it. It wasn't pretty, but we made it.

RAW: Yesterday it was a four-hour delay at O'Hare, en route to Newark. First one plane broke. Then they couldn't get gas in the second one. Finally we took off, landed, and I had only minutes to make my presentation. Unfortunately, I stood in the cold *downstairs*, while my driver was apparently waiting *upstairs*. I swore at the dispatcher. I'm not proud of it, but I didn't plan it. Sometimes profanity just comes out. We made it with minutes to spare.

I had 150 people waiting for me, and the A/V stuff was was not what it was supposed to be. They said it was X, and it turned out to be Y. Alas, it worked, more or less. I am a pro. Don't mean to brag, but: I made it work. That's my job.

Then my next driver was not where he was supposed to be. I found him, circling the block. I was frozen, but I did not swear. And redemption was just around the corner.

He was canny, and so he found a quick way around an overturned truck. I made it to the airport, running on one Powerbar over the course of a 12-hour day, only to discover: My flight was cancelled. That's alright. It was only the last flight of the day! I'd spend the night at Newark, eating pizza and trying to find new levels of discomfort.

And then: Deus ex machina! The earlier flight was still there. "Sir, run to Gate 14. Run!"

And then home, late, even though I was on the earlier flight. Go figure. One sick kid in my bed. One healthy wife downstairs with the other kid. Not sick, just lonely, the other kid.

And then today the sick one's cold turns into asthma. The wheezing and gasping. And that's just me. God I hate the anxiety I wear when my kids are sick. Like swimming in a sweatshirt and jeans. Heavy. Six breaths. Just relax.

So what? So I make it to dinnertime, albeit after 9PM. So a quick bottle of Chimay Blue, and ordered-in sushi. The FDA may not know it, but the buzz after raw fish is more exilarating than most controlled substances. It's a quick slap of alive, a salty, slimy, brilliant jolt of raw energy, minus the jitters. Feel good, says sushi. Full, and yet still agile. Fueled.

The wife?

Jumped the 8-bird to Memphis, headed to a meeting. Gone 'til tomorrow night. Twenty-four hours of away. Bet she sleeps like a champ tonight. As for the rest of us, I'm counting on two bedmates before dawn, and neither one likely to be good company. The sick one will come first, probably around 2AM, when the albuterol wears off completely. Six more breaths, buddy. You can do it. And then the lonely one will follow. "I want Momma." By morning I'll be wearing the both of 'em, half-dead from lack of sleep, all of us, but totally alive by dint of feeling needed. Connected.

And come tomorrow night I'll be sleeping somewhere outside of Pittsburgh, wishing I was here anyway. So why not be here now. Right. Here. Raw.

SO FAST INDEED: Something changed in our house this morning.

C.J., the nearly five-year-old, has been sick. Fever. Cough. Miserable.

Eileen took Mikey, the two-year-old, to a mom-'n'-tot class this morning, so I stayed home with old Sicky. Nothing like having Dad around to make a sick kid feel better. Right?

"I'm staying with you this morning," I told him, "but I have to do a work phone call at 10."

"Okay."

He didn't seem too heartbroken.

"So I'll need you to play by yourself for about a half hour."

"Fine," he said. "I'll play Wii."

Not very heartbroken at all.

After I finished the call, I took a couple of those little 8 oz. bottles of Coke down to the basement, his lair. I popped the cap on one for each of us, and we shared a father-son, glass-bottle-of-Coke moment. A good time was had by all. I mussed his hair, while he fixated on his favorite Noggin show, "Wow Wow Wubzie."

"Daddy?" he said.

"Yes, C.J."

"Go take a shower. I'm fine."

Have I already crossed the line from favored status to nuisance? My glass-bottle-of-Coke stunt has a shelf-life of five minutes? I had to laugh. And so I did.

Talk about your bittersweet moments.

WHAT HE SAID: My boy Scoop Jackson knows the Chicago Bears will win the Super Bowl, and he's got ten reasons why.

I LOVE REX, BUT FUNNY IS FUNNY: Once again THE ONION nails it. The headline is everything. (Hat tip to my bro' Eric who forwarded it to me.)

EASY TO LOATHE HER: So now Hillary's saying it's Bush's responsibility to have the troops out of Iraq before he leaves office. I was wondering if it was going to be easy for me to resume my profound dislike for her. The answer is: It's a layup. She is the most insincere, opportunistic, full-of-shit pol since...well, since that red-nosed gladhander named Bill that I voted for twice.

Here's where I net out on Bush/Iraq: I'm not sure whether he was deceptive about his reasons for going into Iraq. At the very least he did what many leaders (and *all* politicians) do: He read the facts in the way that most served his needs. The fact remains -- fact! -- that all of the world's major democracies and their instruments of intelligence believed Iraq/Saddam had WMD. So, for me, Bush is off the hook as to the *why* part of going to war. What he's not off the hook for, in my book, is his relentlessly incompetent prosection of the war, not to mention his pigheaded personnel decisions (leaving Rumsfield in there way too long, brushing aside Powell time after time, having Mike Brown at FEMA, putting that attorney-pal chick up for the Supremes, etc.). I want Bush out as much or more than the next guy...because he's not competent. However...

...to call Iraq Bush's problem, to say he has to meet some sort of timetable to tidy things up before the next Administration...suggests the office of the presidency is not one long line of public servants, but is instead a series of isolated fiefdoms, each separate from the next. Bullshit. Hillary voted to support the war. She should continue to support it, even after it's gone to shit. (And by support it, I don't mean she should blindly cheerlead for it. I mean she should consider appropriate strategic actions, in light of reality on the ground. If, God forbid, she were ever Commander-in-Chief, she might have to make hard decisions like this, rather than simply offer monotone-monologues. Our troops are there. Our. We will support them, regardless of Administration. Those are our boys, she should say. We all have a responsibility to them, and to our country, which supersedes party. Dumbass.)

If we need to get out, our timetable for getting out should be driven by a strategy, not an election cycle. That's the right message.

Hillary's an idiot.

SALVE FOR SLEEP: C.J., our four-year-old, has the croup, we think. Scary stuff, with the seal barks and the gasping for air. I had to go get him from his bed tonight, sling him over my shoulder as he gasped and drooled and cried, fireman-carry him upstairs, and then Eileen took him and consoled him and he went back to sleep. We've been through it before. It doesn't seem serious. And so we both seem to console *ourselves* with a basic, mildly comforting thought: "He's not dying."

Funny that the thought "he's not dying" is what passes for comfort at this lifestage. In my teens and twenties, that thought -- with its evil portent -- might have kept me up all night. Now it's the salve I need for sleep.

SIMON COWELL CAN KISS MY ASS! What's most intriguing -- what's *mesmerizing* -- about early-season AMERICAN IDOL is not the nascent talent. It's not the miserably untalented. It's the aggressive delusion with which many of these non-singers confront the judges. What is it about singing and dancing that makes so many of us think we can do it...when in reality most of us flat out suck? Singing and dancing are indeed democratic activities, available to all, born more of expression than expertise. But when you expect to win a talent competition on nothing but raw desire...emphasis on raw...well, you sure do make for great TV.

BTW, my headline is in jest. I think Simon is nothing if not a mercy killer.

NOW THAT'S A PROLOGUE: As many of you know, I'm a big fan of the series mystery, stuff by guys like Connelley, Child, Burke, Hamilton, and Parker. Oh, and Crais. Robert Crais, the guy who writes the "Elvis Cole" series. One of Crais's best characters is this stone killer-guy, Cole's sidekick Joe Pike. Crais's newest, the soon-to-be-released THE WATCHMAN, makes Pike its central character, and the first pre-release excerpt is a doozy. Can't wait. Will hafta buy the ARC on eBay.

WHY TWO-YEAR-OLDS WOULD MAKE BAD SPIES: Here's what I just heard from downstairs:

(bath sounds)
C.J.: "No, Mikey!"
(crash)
C.J. (devastated): "Waaaaaaahhh!"
Eileen (rushing in): "What happened?"
C.J. (through tears): "Mikey hurt me. He threw that at my head!"
Eileen: "Mikey, did you throw that at C.J.'s head?"
Mikey (delighted): "Yeah!"

NO FAIR: I've decided that my occasional bursts of enlightenment are often misinterpreted as ambivalence and/or apathy. Where's the sin in not getting all worked up over everything, I ask you? Sometimes not caring is the right response to calamity, chaos, and (false) pressures. Sometimes "so what" is the only honest response to somebody else's imperative.

Or maybe I'm just a jerk.

SOME IMPENETRABLE RANT ABOUT MULTICULTURALISM AND MUSIC: Over the years I've been drawn to various musical movements -- the punk movement of the mid- to late-'70s, the intellectual cardigan and spectacle set of the Smiths and their ilk, and the pastiche of early rap and hip-hop as expressed by the lineage of Grandmaster Flash to NWA to De La Soul.

It meant a lot of looks for me: First it was skateboards and short hair. Then Billy Bibbitt long-hair-on-top with shaved sides. Then baggy trousers and hoodies. I did my best.

What's entertaining of late is how these moments have all come together, how a hip-hopper like Lupe Fiasco can come out with a song like "Kick, Push" (which I discovered through Camel reader Paul), how Kanye can proximately ape the nerded-out intellectualism of shoegazers like Morrisey and new wavers like Thompson Twins, how Eminem is nothing if not the son of the Sex Pistols, a bleached-out surf punk spittin' rhymes from inside an industrial wasteland and across a cultural chasm. All of a sudden LRG is making clothes that combine all three elements into a distinctive "streetstyle" look, not neutered nor crazy-quilted, but a single unified look that says creativity and rebellion and eco-organic insouciance. It's as if the "For Us By Us" of FUBU got hip and inclusive, pan-racial, pan-socioeconomic, as if the United Colors of Bennetton spontaneously generated all around us.

I was originally just gonna post about how much I love that "Push, Kick" song, and now here I am off on some kind of writerly bullshit. Whatever. Thanks, Paul! Good song, even if I'm not sure what the difference is between a kick and a push when skateboarding...

INDEED: In keeping with this blog's inclination to spontaneous poeming, I offer you this fresh-off-the-keyboard, blank-verse ditty:

MIND
Always running
out of time
hurried
harried
late.

Late for what?

RHYMES WITH PUKE: Now Duke says the unjustly accused lacrosse players -- the two that haven't graduated yet -- can come back to school. How big of Duke. I'm curious: Is it Duke's policy to suspend and essentially presume guilt in all criminal cases involving students?

Granted, Duke made a big mistake when they rejected my early decision application and waitlisted yours truly way back in 1984. But now they've *really* screwed up. What a total crock this case has been since day one.

PROMISES, PROMISES: For quite a few years now -- more than a decade, probably less than two -- I've been sharing New Year's resolutions with a college pal. It's pretty fun. We swap 'em right after the New Year, then we cajole and tease each other about it a bit during the year. Just a bit. No biggie. Just a fun little tradition. Anyway, here's what I just emailed him for this year:

Develop some form of ongoing spiritual practice; identify some form of spiritual community

Work on some form of routine in my life, spiritual/exercise/family etc.; rituals and routines; I’m doing the individual things, but I want to put some ritual to it, to perhaps make it more effortless

Finish novel by my birthday, 5/11

Do a better job with birthdays, holidays, anniversaries, and other special things; remembering them, honoring them, getting special gifts, etc.

Try to do at least one special, one-on-one thing with each of my sons each week

Cut way down on french fries and pastries

Get weight below 190 (currently 205)

Exercise at least three times/week

So...what are your resolutions?